


Beyond Legendary

by Skull4601 (shiplizard)



Series: No sister of her mother's womb [2]
Category: Riddick (2013)
Genre: Abuse of biology, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Fanboy tears of pain, M/M, Other, Trans Male Character, dubcon, women ruin scifi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2013-09-10
Packaged: 2017-12-26 04:58:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/961833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiplizard/pseuds/Skull4601
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A quick coda to the Riddick movie, tying in with the background set up in <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/274804">Crocuta</a>. </p><p>Riddick was hoping for a quick fuck, not a pregnancy scare and a hallucinatory lecture about his destiny, actually, thanks. </p><p>Spoilers for Riddick (2013) - See beginning note for content warnings</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beyond Legendary

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings: casual ablism, characters being flip and dismissive of sexual assault, persistent misgendering, possible fetishization of a trans character, dubcon (an initially consensual sex scene going further than the participants would have usually agreed to under psychic influence) 
> 
> \-- 
> 
> An unashamed re-working of the ending of _Riddick_ to remove male power fantasy and add a queer narrative. No shame if that's not up your alley.

"Let me ask you something," Dahl murmurs in my ear. "Real sweet like." She smells like leather and gun oil; a strong edge to her sweat, and the very faint smell of nail polish remover she must have spilled on her uniform some time before she ever got to this fuckhole planet.

Her breath is sweet against my ear, the clean smell of a granola ration bar, a whiff of menthol toothpaste; I do love a merc who practices hygeine. My mouth tastes like horse tranq and fuckhole planet, I'm aware. I want her toothpaste, in that second, as much as I want her.

"Do you ever get tired of being wrong?" she whispers, and then leans back and away. Oh, that’s cold. 

Fair, though; I smile through the pain and shrug as if my ribs aren't fractured. "Lady, that's just called being alive."

"Good boy. I'd hate to kick a man while he's down." She pats my cheek and we rise the last meter into the waiting ship, dry and clean; I crawl onto the decking, my ribs scream at me and the world goes black.

 

\--

I wake up maybe half an hour later in the sleeping cabin of Johns' ship with Dahl propping me up while the little good-luck bible reading holy-boy wraps my ribs up, biting his bottom lip while he spools tape around my chest, pass by pass. I feel cleaner; I smell a fuck of a lot better. Obviously I got a spray down while I was out. Seems daddy-Johns runs an extremely clean ship. The air filters are all up to date and everything, which is rare for merc ships, which tend to scrape profits where they can.

Even with the air circulation I can catch a faint scent-- I inhale audibly, turn my head to give Dahl an innocent look.

"Don't read too much into it," she says, unphased.

"What-?" says holy-boy, hands shaking as he fastens the bandage, which is, my ribs inform me, a very bad time for his hands to shake.

"Not you, kid. This one." She tips her head at me.

"What did he do? S-should I get Johns?"

"He's just being an asshole," she assures him.

"I was just curious why a woman who didn't fuck men was so interested in my chest."

She snorts. "Right. Because if I don't fuck men I'm K6, right? I thought you were smarter than Santana. You're disappointing me."

"In fairness, you've also got that tattoo of a woman's dress flying up on your thigh."

Reminding her I've seen her naked has all the effect of a raindrop in hell. Her hands don't tighten, her heartrate doesn't bounce: that card's played out. "That's a historical record. It's educational: ancient Earth culture."

Holy-boy is staring at both of us looking miserable and scandalized. I don't actually know how he survived with Santana's crew however long. Maybe he's good at repressing memories.

"You know why I don't fuck men, Riddick?" she says conversationally. "Because every time someone's ever assumed they were entitled to a piece, it's alway been a man. Everyone who's ever decided my vag was public property, shelter for all comers... always a man."

"Funny. I get it from both sides."

I do. Lots of people get off on a big guy in chains. I'll give her this-- it's about ninety-percent men who've gone for it. Stats are on her side.

"Poor baby. You've had a hard life." She pats me on the cheek again.

She's a heartless asshole, this one. I'm starting to think we could get along.

Holy-boy finishes patching me up and offers me my shirt with a mumble, then runs out to the cockpit to be around safe, respectable upright people.

"Tell you what," Dahl says, settling me back down on the bed, sitting on the opposite bunk, and starting to pull off her shoes. "If we ever run into each other again and it's not because you went on a murder spree, _and_ you ask real sweet-like, I've got a big rubber cock with your name on it."

"You promise?" I throw her a smirk.

I don't like being fucked. Basically for the same reason I don't like fucking-- both activities are a whole lot of fun, but they tend to shut down your senses a little. The last time I went to bed with someone, she was a necro assassin. And before that, it was a prostitute who called in the local bounty hunter. Baby-Johns busting in with a big gage while I was in the act kind of put a damper on my shit.

Remove that field of paranoia and I'm up for about anything. In truth, I don't trust Dahl that much, but it's been a while and I’m a little pent. It might be fun to find out just how cutthroat she is.

"Cross my heart." She smirks back and takes out her personal kit, pulling out a little bottle to touch up her toes. The silence is tense, but companionable. We both know the other one's bad news and we're at peace with it.

"I could do you," she offers a minute later, stroking on a new layer.

"Pink ain't exactly my color."

"You're definitely more a cherry-red," she agrees.

The stink of nail enamel fills up the cabin, chemical enough to combine with the fluorescent lights spiking through my goggles and get a migraine going, so I lean back with my eyes shut.

After a while, when the bottle's capped and the recycling system is dealing with the fumes of her drying nails, she says, quietly: "Sorry about your guard dog."

A poisonous drop of rage and sorrow splashes into my drowsy calm and sends ripples of fuck-you through my whole psyche. The reminder that the reason I can't hear Pard snuffling around or smell him isn’t because he's off digging in some shit he shouldn't be but because he's dead, left for snake-tail meat with bullets in his goofy face, it's like getting stabbed in the chest all over again.

I don't stiffen. I don't react. You show heart and they know where to stab, and she's still a merc. "You didn't kill him," I say casually.

"Lucky for my head."

"Lucky for your head." I make a show of stretching more than I should, and sit up, which I shouldn't do at all. "So are you hauling my ass in? I've got a million UD on me easy. Or do I get that other node and a ship."

"Boss got what he wanted," she says, conversational. "We're not hurting for the cash."

"Awful honorable of you."

"Hey, if you want to go back to Ursa Luna in plastic, just let me know."

I look over and she's smiling brightly at me, those big light-colored eyes of hers showing nearly all the way around. Somewhere between doll-innocence and killer-crazy, as much a front as mine-- I give her nine points out of ten, because the corner of her smile is too sarcastic and tips her hand a little.

"I'm ready to go whenever you're ready to let me go."

"Sensors say there's a break in the clouds a couple hours off; might give the planet a few hours of sun. Maybe those things down there will ease up a little if things dry out; we'll drop you then."

"I'll grab a little more shut-eye, then." Maybe. Or maybe eavesdrop on the cockpit. She doesn't look like she believes me entirely but she shrugs and taps her toenail-- dry enough for her to put her socks and boots back on and head out into the cockpit.

I'm exhausted enough and almost maybe sort of trust Daddy-Johns enough that I do sleep for a while.

The light's out when I wake up again-- light out and door closed. Considerate, except that someone's on the inside of the door. I sit up a little with a wince, and eye the intruder.

"...kid. You know I can see in the dark, right?"

"Yes," he whispers, and takes a few blind steps in. It's not a big cabin; he winds up alongside me fast.

"So what are you trying to achieve here?" But my nose is telling me already. Dahl isn't the only one who pings for people she shouldn't. He's full of fear and desire. And unlike Dahl, I do fuck men.

I just probably shouldn't fuck this one. He's all of twenty and he's real into the bible, which as I recall has a big long list of shit you don't do in bed (including 'other men', right?) and he turned the light out and came to me because he doesn't want to fuck, he wants to be forced to fuck. I'm a monster, obviously. It won't be his fault, obviously. 

Are my balls blue enough to let him pull this.

...maybe. Maybe not, though, especially if he reacts badly afterwards. I don't have 'sexual assault' anywhere on my rap sheet and it would kind of break the flow I had going, murder-manslaughter-murder-property-defacement-manslaughter-grand-theft-space-faring-vehicle.

"Turn on the light," I tell him, and he does. "Don't know how you bible types do it, but the sacrificial lamb thing really ain't turning my crank."

That makes him look ashamed, but doesn’t actually chase him out. He looks at his hands, then back at me, and it’s obvious he likes what he sees. "Please," he whispers.

On the one hand, how awful is this idea.

On the other hand, how blue are my balls and this one, at least, isn't armed and probably won't call in the authority until afterwards.

On the first hand, though, If he runs to Johns and says I tried something I'm getting a slug through the forehead no questions asked.

Back to the second hand, he smells intoxicatingly up for it...

"Come here," I say coolly, and he almost trips on his way back to the cot, catching himself before he lands on my bandaged chest. Good boy. "You ever done this before?"

A jerky shake of his head; of course he hasn't. What an amazing sense of timing this guy has. "With a woman?"

Another headshake. I question my choices even as I'm undoing my fly.

"Can I touch?" he asks shyly, and I nod; he surprises me by starting at the temples. I don't quite flinch, although I really don't like things coming at my face. I untense by inches as he gets down to my jaw, fingers shivering across my lips like he's afraid he's going to set off a tripwire if he's too incautious, moving down my neck in a way that's uncomfortably like reverence. I got a lot of that when I was still playing Lord Marshal-- difference is, this kid means it.

Then he kisses me and I know for absolutely fucking certain this was a mistake.

But being wrong is a constant state of humanity; it's called being alive.

"Get up here," I tell him, low and deep. "Weight on my thighs and shoulders, not my chest." He scrambles up, and I grip him by the jaw and pull him down to kiss him some more. He's not bothering with his own pants yet, although I can see they're tight; he's too busy dealing with me, processing me with the hand that isn't braced on my shoulder, exploring me with fingertips and mouth as his first blueprint for being with another man.

It's awkward as shit, but I'm exhausted and hurt and I can be patient while he gets himself used to this. There's the usual awkward moment when he gets his hand down my pants and pulls me out, of course, but I’m used to it.

He cups my balls, squeezing gently, then a little harder, face twisting up confused. "You're... different."

I shrug. "Little bit, yeah." My equipment isn't exactly standard; always wrote that off as me just not being standard. Shorter and fatter shaft, dense balls that grew instead of dropping. I got some shit for it as a kid; as an adult, I found a whole lot of 'don't care', especially where money was involved. "You picked a bad place to start if you were looking for something vanilla."

"No," he breathes, and then tastes the precum that's already leaking out-- always a lot of that. He’s surprisingly okay with it. "No, it's-- it's uh--"

His face is washed with infra-red, all the blood hot and right at the surface as he blushes. This is ridiculous.

"Weird?"

"Sinful." He swallows. "Beautiful." He strokes up the shaft a few times, marveling at the smoother texture, skates his fingertip around the slit at the top-- makes a startled, hungry noise when he realizes I can actually take a finger up there.

"Go ahead," I grate, not really able to restrain a shudder and the weird pleasure it brings when he slips in, lubricated with precum, up to the first knuckle of his index finger.

Not human standard. What can I say. I didn’t get out of my teenage years not knowing exactly what I liked, and a little sounding is exactly up my alley. More than a little, in fact. 

He stammers something, goes for his pants, and I can see him having the thought. He got a finger in there, and his one-track hormonal mind is taking the obvious course.

I'm about to cut him off, tell him that that won’t be happening, but the world around us... ripples. Changes. Blooms into something else. 

Suddenly we're on an altar, in a graveyard, and that woman who shows up in my hallucinations is there. She's naked. She has a dick, I notice.

It looks more like the kid's dick than mine does, I notice.

You'd think hallucinations mid-coitus would be a turnoff, but there's a dreamy sense of rightness to it all. We're naked in the vision, my chest bare and healthy, him radiant and clean straddling my legs. .

"Where are we?" he whispers, and the fact that he can see this is jarring enough to leave me silent. My chest pulses with blue light.

"Human man," says hallucination-woman. "You are offered a great honor." 

He looks at her. At me.

"Furyan," she says to me: "You have forgotten. Remember."

And some part of me does. It wakes up and remembers, and suddenly I know exactly what I want.

The next second, she's gone and so are most of my conscious thought processes; I push the kid back onto the altar silently, reversing our positions so now I'm kneeling over him. Moving on instinct I line us up, tip to tip, and breathe as I just… take him in. My dick encompasses his, relaxing and stretching slowly around, the pleasure edged with pain but not so that I want it to stop. It’s only as sharp as it's always been since I figured out I liked having something inside almost as much as I liked have something around it. His eyes are dilated; he's shaking, whispering 'please' over and over and holding my shoulders as we join up, as nerves I was previously unaware of light up bright. 

We rut silently, slowly, in the graveyard, on the stone, every sensation magnified, time syrup-slow and fluid, and even with that slow-down he comes fast. I work us together and find my own strange peak myself, then a second like an aftershock, and we breathe out, going quiet and still, still joined and still dazed as the vision dims and flickers and reality comes back.

We're dressed again. We're in the sleeping cabin. I’m still straddling him; he's still balls deep in my dick, slowly going soft.

"You saw him too?" he whispers. "The angel both man and woman?"

"Kid. You need to get over there now," I say with a strained voice, and pull off him as fast as I can without hurting myself. 

Pretending to be psychotic is, in certain situations, and those situations have made up a lot of my life, a good idea. Actually being psychotic is dangerous and a vulnerability I don’t want to deal with. So maybe I should be relieved that it's not a hallucination, that it's some actual psychic visitation and not a crossed wire in my head.

You know, somehow I'm really not. Somehow, I'm actually quietly going into crisis mode in the silence of my own mind, the animal side entirely calm, the high level thought side whipping up a panic so profound that I don't realize for a minute or two that the kid is shaking on the other cot with his face in his hands.

"Bible-boy." His face snaps up, and his tears leave dark tracks of coolness down the golden-red heat of his face.

"What have I done?" he asks me, as if he trusts me to have an answer, which just smacks of real poor judgement on his part.

"I can't answer that for you," I tell him, as kindly as I can, which isn't very, if we're being honest. "You came in here and shut the door. What happened after that?" I raise a shoulder. My ribs had stopped hurting during our little out of body jaunt; the pain's back now, I realize very quickly. I forge on. Show no pain. "Maybe you fucked a guy. Maybe you fucked a guy who was a little different than most. Maybe you had a long talk about God. Maybe you argued with him.. Maybe you got scared and backed out and sat over there for ten minutes pretending you were just here to read."

The tears are drying up, a little.

"So you tell me," I say. "What happened in here?"

It takes him a while, turning it all over in his mind. He grips the bible in his pocket convulsively-- I bet it’s his poker tell. His tears dry; he calms himself down, taps some inner well of peace. "I saw an angel," he says finaly, looking up as if he can see something through the upper hull of the little ship. "I saw an angel and I lay willingly with a man. A man like no other I will meet."

Not what I was expecting him to go for.

"I'm pretty sure she ain't an angel," I feel compelled to say, for whatever reason. 

"He is a messenger-- angels are messengers. He whispered to me, gave me the knowledge of what I must do if there was to be a child." 

A _what._ He sits there looking like this makes perfect fucking sense and I stare back at him still caught up in a gravity-well of _what._

“Just don’t tell Johns I twisted your arm or anything, all right?” 

"No." He smiles, tears all gone, weird beatific look on his face. This kid is suicidally stupid, and next time I’m just going to deal with the sexual frustration. It’s safer than this bullshit. 

He leaves me alone with my brain still orbiting 'if there was to be _a what_ ' like a satellite degrading towards a sun. 

\---

Next day I leave the little party of three survivors-- trying not to think of a kid, a killer, and a holy man, although this time the kid and the holy man are jammed together into one stupid little sacrificial lamb who's going to get his ass kicked by life sooner not later, and the killer is a civilized, uniformed killer with pink toenails.

"Tell Dahl to keep it warm for me," I say over the comm, because after the shit that happened in the sleeping cabin, ten inches of rubber strapped to an aggressive woman sounds completely, refreshingly normal.

They take off-- I brace for a last betrayal, for the mercs to decide the payday’s worth it after all, and I’m still surprised when nothing happens. Doesn’t mean I don’t land on the first place there’s an atmosphere and sweep for a tracker; doesn’t mean I take anything on faith. 

When I fail to find anything, when I’m forced to admit that Daddy-Johns may actually be the upright do-good type he says he is, I set a course for the last known location of the Necro armada and strap in for cryosleep. 

The vision happens two weeks in. Because my life. 

Hallucination-woman is dressed this time. She meets me in the graveyard that seems to be the only rendezvous point she knows, because apparently the message that the rest of my race is dead just hasn’t been hammered in enough. 

“I appreciate not dying on Crematoria and all, but can we stop doing this? I’m working on the Furya thing. Give me some time.” 

She gives me this chiding look, but bows her head to and puts a hand over my stomach. She cocks her head like she’s listening, and frowns. 

"Your cycle is begun anew," she says solemnly, like she's delivering bad news. "There is no child this time."

"There is no _what._ " Maybe it’s good she showed up, because this is a bone I’ve been needing to pick for a while now. 

"You must remember, Riddick-- must remember what you are. You will be the weapon of vengeance, but you must also be the vessel of creation. You must birth new Furyan life."

See, what I needed was a psychic obstetrician. "Minor problem with that. My body ain't precisely set up for it. I don't know if you know, but there was this prophecy about a male child-"

"I know," she says, voice echoing and distant. "You were forged into the male child; left for dead, left to be raised by strange races with strange gods. In your heart and mind you are as much man as I am."

There’s a silence, just a tiny little pause that’s long enough for me to get a chill down my spine; I think I know where this is going, suddenly. Call it ancestral memory. Call it enough time on xenosurvey duty to know that some mammals do sexual dimorphism a little... differently. 

"But your body is still the body of a Furyan woman,” says psychic asshole M.D. Look at that, I called it. Shit. “You were born Taras Mankiller; daughter of the line of Krieg. Though you no longer bear that name you still bear the duty. You must carry on the line; your womb will be the crucible of new warriors."

"Counterpoint: Fuck that. Fuck you."

I'm getting too used to having conversations in psychic graveyards. It doesn't even seem strange anymore. Even this new wrinkle barely phases me while I'm in vision/hallucination mode; I’m already settled back down to ‘annoyed and resigned’ about the news that I’m packing a concealed uterus. 

"You must." She (he) tells me, reaching out with a glowing hand. "End the Necromongers. Thwart the prophecy of childlessness delivered to you in your mother’s womb. Revenge and remake the Furyan race. It is your destiny, Riddick."

And then I'm in the cockpit again, blinking out of my cryo-haze, one hand protectively over my stomach.

I’m starting to get real, real sick of the word 'destiny'. 'Prophecy' can go piss out an airlock too. 

If you gave me a choice, I'd turn the rains back; I'd live on the little fuckhole planet, throwing sticks for Pard and eating lichen and wild game and sleeping rough. I gave plenty more of a fuck about my dog than I do what happened to Furya, I could die of old age without ever seeing another fucking face for as long as I fucking lived and I would be entirely all right with that.

But I don't get a choice, no. I get a destiny.

Some days are bad days.  
Some days are legendary bad days.

Been there. Done that. That’s junior-league shit. 

This? This is the start of something mythically fucked up.


End file.
